The thing is, I think he might get me. Because I get him: I get why he wants to fly downhill. I stand on the verge to watch him sometimes, whooshing past, the carve and scrape of his wheels, the movement all danger and grace. A wrong turn. A bit of gravel. A fast car. That is all it would take.

It’s: how close can I get to the edge of this? How deep before I must go up for air?

Is this a life?

It has to be. I don’t know another way to exist.

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 6

Jack lied and said he was eighteen in order to join the army. While he was in training, Fred’s unit left for the Pacific. Mum spent her days glued to the radio, as if it might somehow communicate his demise. Dad stayed out drinking more and Mum’s anxious state seemed to worsen. Her eyes were often bloodshot and puffy from crying.

With Jack gone, I had the bedroom to myself and when I wasn’t at work I was holed up in there, reading fashion magazines, trying out new hairstyles or taking up the hem on one of my skirts. I had packed all of Jack’s books and form guides and jars of stinky hair pomade into the trunk at the foot of his bed. I only missed him late at night, when we used to talk about the future if neither of us could fall asleep.

I liked to daydream about leaving home, walking down the aisle in white with a fluttering veil, having a husband and a place of our own. Not long after I got the job at the Quartermaster Corps I put a wedding dress on layby at Grace Bros. Wedding dresses were becoming scarce, and I didn’t want to miss out. It was cotton organza with a long skirt and a lace bodice, puffed sleeves and a square neckline. The lace was a pattern of love knots. Dot knew about it but not Mum and Dad; I was afraid they’d laugh at me.

One night I was sitting up in bed, fixing a button on a bouclé suit jacket, when Mum came in. She sat on the edge of Jack’s bed, her thighs straining the seams on her dress.

‘You could leave those little repair jobs for me, now that you’re working,’ she said. Even in the lamplight I could see loose skin sagging beneath her chin. I wondered when she’d last worn make-up or visited the hairdresser.

‘I don’t mind, Mum.’

I had used a longer length of thread than I needed for a simple button, but she watched quietly, not commenting on my ineptitude.

‘Could you pass me the scissors?’ I pointed with my chin to the pair lying on the windowsill. I had used them to cut my fringe earlier.